“But I said that first!”
“Yes, possibly. I don’t recall.”
“You damn well know it’s the truth.”
“Possibly. But that doesn’t change the fact that it made me famous, not you, and that I’ll always be remembered for saying it.”
And so they continued on in the art world – one famous and basking in the glory of his stolen truism, the other one unknown and bitter.

It’s National Poetry Month, and today’s prompt appears to be “Write a poem where your speaker experiences a moment of insight in a very ordinary place, like a supermarket, doctor’s office, parking lot.”

There they were, sincere businessmen, these uncles of mine, sitting around a table in that yellowed 1950s-style office, smoking their cigars and making decisions about me.

“He does an OK job,” Otto said.
“Usually,” Ernest qualified.
“But his tools are not up to snuff,” Euge diminished.
“He has ambition, though,” Ernest augmented.
“Maybe too much,” Euge reduced.
“Sometimes I can’t remember his name,” Otto said.
He had memory problems occasionally, ever since getting injured in a train bombing during the very last days of the war.
“We should give him work,” Ernest said.
“I’ve got to go. Wife’s waiting,” Otto said.
“I’ll find out what the minimum wage is,” Euge said in conclusion.

From the diary of a ducktail pincher

Found the bags under my eyes enlarged when looking in the mirror while brushing teeth at around 7 a.m.
Went back to bed after some hesitation and slept two more hours.
The Italian movie we watched last night didn’t know what it was supposed to be – comedy, satire, drama or just plain overdone stupid. Title something like “The people that are good.”
No-one in there was particularly good except for the hero’s wife (who didn’t get much exposure). Exposure of the bad ones always works better.
Another illustration of the dumbshits in pinstripes theme.
With that fat Italian actor who finally needs to shave his trademark beard and do something about his constant glowering.
Also getting fatter every movie I see him in. The Italian Brando.
Skipped the breakfast bar today on account of getting up so late.
Devised this and even its title before falling back asleep.
Ducktail pinchers are those who clamp the rear of their ducks closed so they won’t lose an egg when they allow the ducks to waddle down to the pond.
Don’t have any ducks, don’t have a pond, never even tasted a duck egg.
It’s a disgrace that we feed on unborn life, isn’t it?
But that’s the way it is on this earth. Even herbivores and vegans feed on their plant victims.
Now that I’ve written down all this imms.ly pertinent stuff it’s time to start something gainful.
Will have to go down for fruit.

“You know what, honey? I’m going to change the hero of my novel.”
“Really?”
“Instead of a cold, depraved and powerful man it’s going to be a cold, depraved and powerful woman.”
“Why’s that?”
“I read somewhere recently that novels with heroines are bound to be more successful these days.”
“I see.”
“I’ve already talked to my agent about it. She said go for it.”
“Ok.”
“The cold and powerful are easy. They go together very well.”
“But not depraved?”
“In fact, I’m not quite sure what depraved really is.”
“I’m sure you’ll find out easily if you take a good look at some of those who are cold and powerful out there in real life.”
He looked at her over the top of his reading glasses where she continued to forcefully knead dough in the kitchenette.Am I crazy? he thought to himself. There is something weirdly cold and powerful about the way she goes about the dough.
“That’s an idea,” he said.
And continued thinking, But there’s nothing depraved about it, is there? That would be too weird!

Aileen: Were you here in Hiroshima?
Louyguy: Of course I was.
Aileen: Were you also in Nanking?
Louyguy: Yes, I was there too. Many other places as well, all with photogenic names.
Aileen: That’s right. How silly of me.
Louyguy: I was also in Paris, fighting off the war.
Aileen: With Hemingway, right? Lucky for Paris, eh?
Louyguy: Yes.
Aileen: So lucky to know you.

Notes
This is a mild persiflage of a shred of dialogue from the film Hiroshima mon amour (1959) by Alain Resnais, script by Marguerite Duras. I have not seen the film but admit to an intense dislike of Duras’ novel of the same title, which I put aside after a few pages, filing it away in memory as a pretentious, blown-up piece of nothing.